


Sizing Up the Night's Watch

by fanboi214



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24478606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanboi214/pseuds/fanboi214
Summary: Reimagines a world in which Drogo survived and made it to Westeros. He comes to the wall as part of the Targaryen emissary and he and Jon... get close.Was written as a response to the following Prompts:The Object: TorchThe Character: BarbarianThe Setting: The Frozen North
Relationships: Khal Drogo/Jon Snow
Comments: 5
Kudos: 49





	Sizing Up the Night's Watch

Note: This is set in an alternate history of Westeros where Khal Drogo did not die of infection. He recovered fully from his minor injury and accompanied Daenerys across the sea to Westeros and are living in Dorne. They have a healthy infant son, Rhaegar II. Time wise this is set during the war of the five kinds. Daenerys has laid claim to the throne on her sons behalf, and demands to be recognized as queen regent. With an extra contingent the war is known as the War of the Six Crowns. Things have played out slightly differently, but the Wildlings are still amassing to lay siege to the wall. 

Note 2: I have to apologize I was trying to hit a deadline so the ending is a bit rushed. Hope it's enjoyable anyway! 

Jon paced uneasy in the Lord Commander’s chambers. Everyone was looking to him. He didn’t understand why. He had spent barely time in the Watch and no small portion of it was as a captive of the wildlings. Still the older members of the watch seemed either dead, cowardly, or enfeebled at the moment. This left everyone looking to him, the late Mormont’s chosen successor, the man who Maestar Aemon shared confidences. “It’s only a matter of time, Sam. We don’t have the men to hold the wall.” 

Jon looked up toward Samwell Tarley, unlikely friend and advisor to the unlikely Lord Commander. “Well we still haven’t heard from all the kings Maester Aemon sent raven’s to. Maybe-“ 

“No one else is coming, Sam.” Jon grunted angrily. “As far as they’re concerned the wall breaking will be a windfall, force Robb to split his troops and secure the northern border. Besides, Robb has made it clear he won’t let any troops pass his blockades even if they want to get here.” Jon scowled. He couldn’t blame his brothers. Enemy troops were far more likely to loop around and attack his flanks than proceed to the wall. But it left the Night’s Watch in a fairly hopeless spot. Mance had simply amassed too long, too strong, of a force. They could be held off for a certain amount of time, but who knew how long…

Jon was startled from his thoughts by a thunderous roar, a vicious noise that shook not only his bones but Castle Black itself. He looked to Sam, the color drained completely from his face. “Was that what I think it was?” Sam sputtered. 

The door flew open and one of Jon’s men came in, panic written on his face. “Sir, you need to come see this immediately.”

***

Drogon whipped his tail in discontentment, downing a whole row of sparring dummies in the process. The massive black dragon practically filled the training grounds of Castle Black, the excuse of an army that surrounded him looked like they might just shit their pants and die. Drogon was not impressed. Nor was Khal Drogo. The massive brutte was still astride the dragon that bore his name. Both he and it had a smug snarl on their lips. He had found the Westrosi ‘warriors’ pathetic, tiny boys in silk pajamas and tin cans, so afraid to feel the bite of battle. From what he heard of the Night’s Watch he thought they may be different. Less fancy more manly, but perhaps he was mistaken. He gave Drogon a pat and it cooled it’s temperment a bit. 

Jorah Mormont was far less enthused to make this journey. But Daenerys insisted he accompany her husband to translate and moderate his interactions. He was not one to deny his queen a request even if it was to aid that disrespectful barbarian wretch of a husband she had acquired. He did a quick scan of the crowd, dreading the inevitable confrontation that lay ahead with his father. The third visitor, Quentyn Martell, was merely happy to be off that blasted dragon. It seemed to harbor an utter contempt for everyone and everything outside of Dany. She’d coaxed it into taking some measure of direction from her husband, but he was quite certain it would just assume fry and consumer all three of them.

The men of the Night’s Watch were gathered above them, not that Quentyn could blame the brothers, his group had made quite the entrance. He cleared his throat and looked up at the on lookers, “We’ve come to speak with Lord Commander Mormont.” 

One boy, young curly haired stepped forward. “The Lord Commander is dead.” 

Jorah didn’t react. He couldn’t react. He couldn’t process the news. He had gone from assuming he’d never see his father again to dreading their inevitable meeting and the crushing disappointment he would see in Jeor’s eyes. Now it would seem he’s gotten the worst of both worlds. His father was dead. He died in this freezing barren dull place, a place he only was because of Jorah’s transgressions and subsequent cowardice. He didn’t know how much time had passed in his numbness, but he was startled as Drogo dismounted the dragon nearly landing atop him. “Fine.” Quentyn said sounding more annoyed than anything else “Then show us to the new Lord Commander.” 

The men were silent a beat, then a portly one stepped forward, “There, ummm, there isn’t a new Lord Commander.” 

“Isn’t that just fantastic.” Quentyn snorts. If there was any question of how little his family thought of him. He was shipped off with a traitor and a savage on a ‘diplomacy’ mission with a disorganized band of brigands and cowards huddled in a dark, frozen corner of the country. “Well who leads you?” 

A truly decrepit man croaked out, “Jon Snow speaks for the Night’s Watch.” 

“Eddard’s bastard? Where is he then?” Quentyn sighed, annoyed. 

“There.” Jorah said, a grim tone to his voice. Mormont nodded to the curly haired boy who had first spoke.

Jon didn’t know how this man knew him on sight. Had they met? He looked unfamiliar to him. Moreover why did he stare at Jon so coldly. That’s when he realized the other man’s gaze wasn’t falling on him. It was at his scabbard, or rather the sword itself, Longclaw, the family blade of House Mormont. In that moment Jon understood who that man was. He understood everything that was happening. 

The behomouth behind Jorah snorted in contempt and grunted something in Dothraki. “What’s he saying?” Jon called down. 

“He doesn’t believe you’re their leader. He said you’re to pretty to know a thing about battle.” Jorah said, a certain amount of mirth in his voice. Drogo was not his favorite person by far, but he quite enjoyed translating that little message. 

***

With such an auspicious start the diplomatic talks were going as well as one might imagine. Jon and Aemon saw their guests to the Lord Commander’s chambers for a private discussion. Jon did his best to impress upon them the urgency of the situation. The size of the wildling army, but Quentyn looked at best unimpressed. Drogo was in the back corner more or less removed from the conversation. Jorah deigning to translate only seemingly random bits of their conversation for him. It felt like a fools errand, because it was. But desperation made fools out of everyone and Jon was nothing if not desperate. “This is an unprescedented threat for us. The Wildlings have never been so well organized, and so many in number.” 

“I have no doubt the rabble is massing, but a single skilled knight can cut down a thousand savages.” Quentyn said with a patronizing smile. THere was a amused chuckle from Drogo, who held a very different opinion. 

“With all do respect, we need more men.” Jon insisted. 

“Well you’re not getting them.” Quentyn said shortly before standing. 

“You’re leaving?” Jon said, his voice raising as got to his feet. “You journeyed all this way only to make up your mind in less than an hour.” 

“And I do believe I am reasonably more annoyed by that than you are.” Quentyn said with a smirk. 

“If you leave us here the wall will fall.” Jon said angrily. 

“Ah yes to the giants and highly skilled peasants-“ 

“To a united people. Because the Wildlings have been banding together while the men of Westeros is being torn apart by its selfish kings.” 

“There is one king, Rhaegar II, and the Queen Regent-“ 

“Is going to get his people killed if she focuses on this petty bickering.” Jon’s anger flared. “The whole of the seven kingdoms will be reduced to rubble.” 

“Let it be. We’ll rebuild it from the ashes, once the war is won.” Quentyn sneered and stormed out of the room. 

Jorah has stopped translating at some point. He had become too transfixed with the fire the young wolf was spitting. It was impressive. He saw what Jeor had seen in him. He was smart and brave. Two traits that Jorah felt he was utterly lacking. Two traits that would’ve saved his father. Drogo was also surprised by the pretty one, he had more bite than the Dothraki had anticipated. He let a grunt out and left the room. 

Jorah looked to Jon, who still seemed to be steaming. “I assume we will be departing first thing in the morning. It would be appreciated.” 

“Of course.” Jon said with a nod. Jorah readied himself to leave, but Jon continued. “Sir, Jorah. I wanted to offer my condolences. Your father was a good man.” 

Jorah inhaled deeply. It had been so long since anyone had referred to Jeor as his father. “I thought the men of the Night’s Watch have no families.” 

“True. But I feel as if I have something that is yours.” Jon’s hand went to the handle of his sword. 

“No.” Jorah said firmly. “He wanted you to have it.” 

Jon nodded. Jorah nodded back, and they both understood where the other stood. 

***

The night was cold and the grounds were sparsely populated. Most the men were on the wall, keeping watch for the Wildlings advance. Those who weren’t were in their bunks, preparing mentally for the battle ahead. None of them were out by the fucking dragon, none of them but Jon. They were afraid but Jon… Jon wasn’t. The beast stared him straight in the eye and Jon didn’t flinch. They just looked at each other a strange sense of calm emanating between them. A deep voice boomed behind Jon and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned to find himself eye level with Drogo’s bare heaving bare chest. It didn’t occur to him until now that the man wasn’t even clothed. Even in the snow. Temperatures cold enough to freeze a living soul the barbarian ran about half clothed. Jon craned his neck up to see the man’s glum face, looking it’s usually very unwelcoming way. “I don’t speak Dothraki,” Jon explained, not that he’d heard what the man was saying. 

“He said he wants to see a giant.” Jorah remarked. “You have an idea where the Wildling camp is, I assume?” 

“Yes.” Jon nodded “But it’s a long ride out and they’ll see us approaching far-“ As Jon spoke Drogo made his way down the steps approaching Drogon. Jon looked to Jorah, “He doesn’t expect-“ 

“You get used to it.” Jorah said clasping him on his shoulder. He read the hesitance in Jon’s gaze. “The Khal loves a fight and his wife trust him. If you handle this correctly you might just get your reinforcements.” 

Jon knew what had to be done. He looked down at the dragon, it hadn’t broken it’s study of him. Not even while Drogo climbed astride it’s back. Not while Jon took the winding stairs down. He knew not to move slow, not to show a sign of fear. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he felt it inside. He needed this dragon to respect him. He needed it to view him as a warrior. So he placed one hand on its side and hoisted himself up. The skin felt warm, quite the comfort after a year spent in the frozen north. It felt almost natural beneath his touch. The dragon bucked no saddle, he merely straddled its back. His hands took ahold of the spikes protruding from the beast’s neck. Jorah mounted behind him and he thought they must look rather a silly sight, three men atop the dragon. But there was no time for anyway to make such an observation because the dragon’s wings began to flap as it took to the air. 

***

The further up Drogon went, the more biting the cold became. The snow fell faster and fiercer. The winds stung more mightily. Yet it didn’t matter. The body heat from the beast below radiated throughout Jon’s body, melted away his concerns. And there were so many concerns. The whole situation was bizarre. The alarm and confusion of the fight was so swiftly replaced with exhilaration. They rolling white hills beyond the wall looked beautiful from above, artistic even. If not for the small matter of an army amassing to destroy him and all he held dear, Jon might even enjoy this. What else was there for him to do? They’d already flown over Mance’s camp. Drogo had seen the impeding force first hand, but Jon had no idea how that would impact his decision. Not that he’d be able to read the man if they were in more a more normal setting, the foreign colossus was practically made of stone. 

Jon would be sad to learn his gut instinct was correct. Drogo had no intention of sending men to help. From what he’d seen the pretty lordling had already lost this battle. Nothing short of a full army would save them. Maybe the dragons, but he would not be risking his son’s birthright on a fight that wasn’t even his. They were several miles from the Wildlings camp when Drogo spotted them. Tiny dots on the ground, creeping by the wall. Torches. Which meant troop movements. He whispered a few words in High Valyrian, Daenarys had taught him enough to command the dragons. Drogon dropped down closer. Drogo let out a happy chuckle when he saw it. A giant. He was not going to come all this way and not even kill a giant. 

It all happened so fast. Neither Jorah nor Jon knew what was happening. The dragon darted downward and his entire body rumbled as he spewed fire below. The Wildling militia was taken by utter surprise, scattering in disarray. Drogo was happy to capitalize on the situation. He jumped from Drogo’s back, sinking his dual sickles into the shoulder blades of a giant. With Drogo removed, Drogon seemed less than pleased to have Jon and Jorah on his back. The thunderous lizard bucked and twisted in midair. The men took the hint, bailing into the nearby snow bank. 

The fighting was fierce. The Wildlings had the three men vastly outnumbered. Drogo looked like he was having the time of his life tangling with that giant. Jon was cutting Wildlings down with Longclaw, moving at an impressive clip. Jorah was holding his own aswell. When Drogo finally felled his target he took a minute to watch the lesser men fight. Jon was impressive, Drogo had to admit he had far underestimated the ferocity bottled up in that man. Drogo proved as deadly as his reputation and soon the entire force was laid to waste. 

Jon pivoted to the Khal, “What the hell was that,” He shouted angrily. 

That only urged a chuckle from Drogo who growled out a one word response, “War.” 

Jorah may have spent his recent years in Essos but he grew up in the north of Westeros. He knew that in every situation the chief enemy was the cold. He scurried to pick up one of the abandoned torches before the snow snuffed it out. The embers from Drogon’s fire were already dying down. Jorah looped back towards Jon and Drogo, holding the torch aloft. 

The realization that Drogon had left was not a pleasant one. They were stranded beyond the wall with no provisions, days out from Castle Black. And an army may be descending on Jon’s people at any moment. He had to get back. He had started on his way, but Jorah convinced him that their best hope was to wait for Drogo, who WOULD be back when he felt like it. They couldn’t stray too far without risking the dragon would be unable to return to them. So they merely had to wait. It was not a happy solution, but it had logic to it. Somehow in all of this what had proven the most irritating was Drogo, the way the man looked at him. It was a kind of smug amused smirk, like the way one stares at a harmless pup that thinks it’s a full grown direwolf. 

Waiting in the dead cold was not a viable solution, especially as Drogo hadn’t even been bothered to put on a shirt before their little excursion. They found a nearby cave to provide some shelter for the night. There was also a torch they had secured from the fallen army and Jon had become painfully aware the heat from that flame was all that was keeping them alive. So they decided to take turns. While two slept one man would stay awake and hold the torch. The first shift had been Jorah’s. Then there was Jon’s turn. 

Jon sat with his back pressed to the cool stone of the cave wall. Before him Jorah and Drogo slept on the rocky ground. Jon had nothing to do but think now. Think about Mance’s army. Think about his dead mentor. Think about the way he had betrayed his vows with Ygritte. Think about how he was likely going to die here. Think about how the wall would fall. Think about Khal Drogo. The man was so strange. He was but a silhoutte in the darkness. But what a massive shape he was. Jon could see his massive chest heaving, his whole body shivering. He was strong but he wasn’t used to the cold, not like Jon. Idiot. He was likely to freeze and that was the last thing Jon needed politically. The boy slid his cloak off his shoulders and tossed the furs onto the sleeping barbarian. He hung over him a minute for no real reason. He couldn’t understand why staring at the sleeping beast comforted him. The man was enigmatic. He knew that he could snap Jon’s neck if the whim flitted through him. It wouldn’t though. He was wild and primal, but such forces could be indespensible when they were on your side. Drogo was not on his side. Yet something deep within him kept whispering that yes, maybe he was. 

When Drogo’s eyes opened he didn’t even notice the furs right off. He noticed the boy. The first danced across his pretty face, show its womanly angles and long eyelashes. He was stockier in frame than Drogo had expected. His cloak normally consumed his shape, it’s why Drogo had failed to notice this. That was the moment when the khal noticed the furs had been placed on him. His smirk deepened. Something about that kid he had to admit he enjoyed. He fought like a wild man, all instinct. He was more than he appeared. Drogo understood maybe why such a puny creature would be chosen to lead. 

Drogo rose from his slumber and slung the cloak around his massive shoulders. It looked almost comically short on him, but he wore it none the less. He and Jon switched positions and Jon now lay in the darkness. Sleep did not come easy to Jon. His eyes found their home fixated on Drogo. The man’s body was a miracle. The flickering flames illuminating all it’s well sculpted muscled. Jon had never seen a chest like that. He’d seen giants, but they relied on their sheer size. Drogo had managed to pack all their power into a frame more than half their size. His body was scarred too. It had the marks of a warrior. Perhaps that’s why he was so deadset on displaying his chest. Even with the furs hanging from his shoulders it was impossible to see Khal Drogo and not immediately notice his gigantic pectoral jutting out. They were making his power known. They were captivating. They were enticing. They were popping up and down! Did Drogo know Jon was staring. They boy could turn red at the thought. 

It was possible. It was so dark in the cave though. Jon could see Drogo clearly only because of the torch in his hand. To Drogo Jon was a likely only a dark form. That must’ve been the case. Right? Drogo, torch held firmly in his left hand, let his right arm trail up his chest and gingerly play with his own nipples. Jon could shut his eyes, look away to avoid such embarrassment. He could. Or he could take advantage of this presumed anonymity. He could be a voyeur in plain sight. Maybe Drogo wouldn’t know he saw. Or maybe he did know. Maybe the show was for him. Jon felt his dick stirring in his own pants. Jon did not shut his eyes. 

Drogo’s right hand found its way into the man’s pants which had begun bulging notably. Jon had heard many things about the Dothraki. It had been whispered their horse god blessed them with endowments of remarkable size. He had to admit he was curious. Maybe he was more than curious. Drogo let out a grunt as his thumb rolled over his hardening member. Jon without realizing let his own hand drift. It snuck beneath the cusp of his pants and his fingers wrapped around his shaft. Drogo was definitely looking at him now. He was staring him right in the eye. He knew. He had to know. That or he was simply jerking himself off to the sight of Jon. 

Jon’s breath caught. Drogo was on his feet. Time felt slowed. Jon should stop. He should pretend to sleep. He should shut his eyes. He should stop staring at the huge swelling lump in Drogo’s pants that was jumping with each step he took. It was so damn big though… just huge. And it was right above him. Jon’s eyes crept up the form that was now inches from his face. Drogo stared down at him, a self satisfied grin across his face. “Pretty” he grunted down. 

Jon couldn’t tell you exactly how it went from there. He was on his feet and eye to chest with Drogo. Drogo guided Jon’s hand into his pants. Jon actually gasped as his fingers wrapped around Drogo’s girth. Blessed by the horse gods indeed. Drogo’s member, nearly at it’s full length, was already gigantic. It’s size dwarfing any dick Jon had ever seen… almost. Drogo’s free hand slipped into Jon’s pants and he took a handful of the bastards aching member. “Big,” Drogo grunted in absolute surprise.  
The men of Westeros had proven themselves unimpressive to Drogo in many ways. Their manhood was no exception. By and large they were lacking. Jon felt like he could be Dothraki. And as Drogo’s hands coaxed his cock, it became clear he wasn’t yet at his full length.The scene was a beautiful juxtaposition. Everything clashed. Everything complimented. Their bodies were mere inches apart. Their breath could be seen in the frozen air, but only for seconds before the flame consumed it. The torch backlighting the tableaux as the snow and chill threatened to creep in on them. Drogo barechested and draped in Jon’s furs. Jon seemed somehow more naked with his simple cloth shirt. Each man had a hand down the other’s pants. Their respective cocks visibly aching to escape through the stressed fabrics. Drogo loomed tall and bulking. Jon looked short and lithe. Their eyes were locked. Their eyes were the same. There was lust in those eyes. An animal ferocity on both sides. Amusement. Surprise. Pride.

While Jon’s right hand slid up and down Drogo’s length, his left made quick work of the bindings on Drogo’s pants. He was anxious to see Drogo in full. It sprang forth, thick and anxious. Jon smirked and simply said “Big.” Drogo released Jon just enough to tear him free. His length leaped forth, out into the cold night air. It was slick with precum, ready to burst, as was Drogo himself. The two maintained eye contact even as they climaxed.

***

No further words were said that night. An odd respect hung between them. They got dressed. Returned to their spots. If Jon didn’t know better he’d say it was all a dream. But it couldn’t have been because he didn’t sleep that night. Eventually Drogon returned. He flew them back to Castle Black, where Drogo promised to send Jon reinforcements, over Quentyn’s objections. 

Then the three foreigners climbed aboard the dragon and flew off disappearing into the distance. “Do you think they’ll cum?” Sam asked looking to Jon. “The reinforcements.” 

“Yes.” Jon said with the slightest smirk. He elaborated no more.


End file.
